


The One With the Pot

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Frottage, Incest, M/M, Pre-Series, Recreational Drug Use, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:05:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s moving through cotton wool and foam. It’s pleasant. It’s easy to figure out why Linc likes the feeling so much. (Pre-series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One With the Pot

**Author's Note:**

> I was really, really lazy regarding the title. Sorry ;)

He’s moving through cotton wool and foam; velvet and feathers; maybe silk and cashmere. Whatever it is, it’s something soft and warm that slows and cushions his movements, something that dampens the sounds and the light, and makes him float in a fuzzy bubble. It’s pleasant. It’s easy to figure out why Linc likes the feeling so much.

Michael settles more comfortably against Lincoln’s bare chest and rubs his cheek on smooth skin covering strong muscle. That’s pleasant too though, indistinctly, Michael thinks he shouldn’t find it _so_ pleasant. Lincoln chuckles and pats his shoulder, all accepting and reassuring. The touch on his shoulder reminds Michael that he too got rid of his shirt. Maybe he shouldn’t have? But whatever, what’s the big deal? He still has his khakis on, and this is his brother — half naked brother — anyway. His brother whose chuckle slides down his spine like a caress. He bows his back in pleasure and all but purrs, which leads to more chuckling.

“You’re so high,” Lincoln says with another pat, even more patronizing than the first, on his shoulder.

“Like you’re not.” Michael’s tone would be indignant if he wasn’t, indeed, so high. As it is, his voice sounds like a lazy, never-ending, raspy buzz. In his defense, they have both collapsed and spread out on the leather couch of his living room, shoes, shirts and inhibitions off. If it’s Lincoln who holds and passes the pot between them, it’s more out of habit than anything else because he still has more sense or coordination than Michael.

‘cause he doesn’t still have more sense or coordination than Michael.

“I do,” Lincoln contradicts, “but who cares? You’re high. The point of that stuff _is_ to get high. You did good, Mikey.”

That’s a twisted, lincolnesque, logic, but it works for Michael right now. He nestles his head into the crook of Lincoln’s neck and kisses his jaw. A wet, unfocused kiss, a bit like the ones he used to give him a lifetime ago.

He feels warm; he feels good and relaxed and carefree, and...

“I’m a bit hard.”

“Right...” More chuckling — that does nothing for Michael’s current issue — and he _knows_ that Lincoln’s smirking. “Let’s not overshare here, okay?”

“But I am.”

Lincoln replies that this kind of statement is why he never let Michael do pot when they were younger, and why Michael still shouldn’t do pot now that they’re grown-ups. At least, not with anyone other than Linc around. Michael rolls his eyes and shifts his hips and...

“You’re a bit hard too.”

He half-expects Linc to throw him off his own couch for having spoken the truth. Or maybe for having spoken a truth you’re not supposed to speak, even when high? But Lincoln just curls a hand behind his head and presses him tighter into his flank.

“Shush, Mike. Just relax and enjoy for once.”

Linc doesn’t react when he darts out his tongue to taste the stubbled skin of his chin or when he presses his nose behind Lincoln’s ear. He does react, though, when Michael edges a knee across his lap and starts to climb.

“What are you doing?”

Michael opens big blue eyes, honestly at loss.

“You told me to relax and enjoy.”

“I didn’t mean...”

Linc holds Michael’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, studying his face, the hazy veil in his eyes, the flush on his cheeks and neck and, rather than finishing his sentence, he takes a sharp intake of air and hauls him up. Michael ends up sprawled on him, chest to chest, legs entwined, head pillowed on Lincoln’s shoulder.

So comfy.

Lincoln takes a puff, offers Michael one and settles the joint in the ashtray on the coffee table. So nice of Linc to be neat with the furniture; Michael loves it. He also loves that Linc is hard against his lower belly, and getting harder and harder as Michael bears down and circles his hips. His touch is still warm and caring, but his hands hold and squeeze tighter now, one of them resting on Michael’s neck and the other patting down his back, grabbing and kneading his ass though his khakis at the same time that Lincoln arches up.

Maybe it’s Lincoln needing the contact enough to press into him; maybe it’s how sharply Michael can feel Linc’s erection against his thigh; the thick fingers trailing down the seam of his pants between his buttocks surely help too. He moans long and needy, eyes closed and mouth slack, hips rolling against Lincoln’s. Linc is so damn hard now, weirdly so when everything else is soft, mellow and sluggish — Michael needs to touch it, experience it better than with a layer of clothes between them, feel how...

Linc stops his hand midway between their stomachs, whispers, “No,” and Michael wants to moan again, this time in frustration because his fingers itch to touch, map and cup; they crave the heat he can imagine there. He tries to force Lincoln’s grip, but that’s useless.

He finds himself suddenly flipped onto his back, so effortlessly that it would be humiliating if it wasn’t kind of hot. The whole room blurs upside down around him so he focuses on Lincoln. Like always, after all. Lincoln who weighs heavy above him, threatening in a way that sends shivers down Michael’s spine, Lincoln who grabs both his wrists in one hand and pins them above his head.

He opens his eyes wide in surprise and freezes. They used to rough-house, wrestle and play, and it’s hardly the first time that Lincoln’s had the upper hand on him so easily. It is the first time, though, that being pinned down and helpless like that is such a turn-on. Dark, dark leather sticks to his skin, Lincoln is in position to do anything, everything, he wants to, and heat and need surge through Michael at the mere thought of what could happen. Brain and good sense shut down — _Just relax and enjoy for once_ , right? — he lets his knees fall open for Lincoln.

Linc doesn’t move. Not having second thoughts, but teasing like the asshole that he is so Michael meets him halfway, canting his hips and begging for a proper contact. With a smirk, Lincoln slots himself between his legs and grinds down. His movements are slow and forceful; they give Michael all the time he needs to feel and enjoy him, to push back and to gasp when their erections collide. Linc’s cock is hard, thick and long, Michael can guess that much even with their jeans and khakis between them.

“You’re huge,” he murmurs, because he can tease too, because it’s the damn truth, and also because the inappropriateness of the statement makes his head spin.

He gets a rougher thrust for that, and Lincoln dipping his head to drag his tongue and teeth across his nipple. He bites and twists, licks and soothes, hurts and comforts in one single touch, and presses Michael back into the couch when he writhes beneath him.

“Feels good?” Linc asks needlessly.

Michael doesn’t bother answering. His breathing is an uninterrupted string of gasps and it takes all his willpower to form actual words, to blurt out, “You’re gonna make me come in my pants.”

“Still oversharing.” Not that Lincoln seems to mind so much anymore. He wouldn’t move faster, harder, rougher if he did, right? He wouldn’t bite the side of Michael’s neck if he did. “Embarrassing you is part of my big brother’s job so go ahead, kid.”

Michael goggles at him, cheeks, mind and lower stomach aflame.

“That’s the sickest thing...”

He will not try to dig up the reason why Lincoln’s crude remark, in association with a sneaky thrust, tips him over the edge and actually makes him cream himself in a way he hasn’t experienced in years. He hears Lincoln’s gentle encouragements and praise, feels the stroke of his thumb on the inside of his wrists, his moist breath in his neck. This _is_ sick, but also so good, so perfect, he closes his eyes and lets the pleasure ripple through him, dwell, explode, expand and quiet down slowly. Lincoln probably thinks he doesn’t notice the soft, wet pecks he brushes on his cheek and his chin, over his brow, as pleasure ebbs away, but Michael does, he damn well does. His cock painfully spills a late drop of come at the thought of Linc kissing him — they would make it deep and messy, demanding, as nasty as the words Linc uttered for him while release was hitting and twisting him seconds ago — but those soft touches are the closest to a full kiss Linc will allow, and truth be told, they’re not half bad.

Then his wrists are free and Lincoln is tentatively moving against him, wanting and needing but not daring to finish himself off. It takes some effort for Michael to move his arms — they’re numb from the forceful hold, and he’s so limp and sated that he wants nothing more than to sleep for an entire week. Down, down Lincoln’s back, stroking the smooth muscles and sliding his hands into the jeans, under the boxer shorts. The buttocks fill the palm of his hands neatly, strong and firm, clenching as Michael presses a finger into the dimple at the base of Lincoln’s ass and lightly scratches his nails across the skin.

Lincoln’s eyes shoot open in shock and pleasure. His face is right above Michael’s, their mouths half an inch apart, Lincoln’s breathing ragged and fast, damp and burning hot on Michael’s lips. He would respond if Michael kissed him right now. He would lean in and let Michael devour him, he would kiss back even though he carefully avoided going _there_ when getting Michael off. It’s such a great sight, Linc so worked up and needing that he could throw his last shreds of common sense overboard for a not-brotherly-at-all kiss. Michael, who knows the feeling, who’s high on it, smiles at him. He still feels as if he’s moving and breathing through something soft and warm, but it’s now only marginally due to the pot.

 _Tease them and let ’em crave for more_ , was Lincoln’s advice about kissing girls ages ago.

Michael moves his face to the right and aims for Lincoln’s ear.

“Embarrassed myself enough for you?” he breathes out. “Now, show me how it’s done, big brother.”

END

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